


The Nuclear Option

by BananaStickers



Series: 2017 Stanley Cup Playoffs (Alternate Universe - The Payment) [3]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2017 Stanley Cup Playoffs, Alternate Universe - The Payment, Angst, Blood, Homophobic Language, M/M, Public Humiliation, Rape Aftermath, Tiny Speedos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-06 01:27:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11025717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananaStickers/pseuds/BananaStickers
Summary: The Pittsburgh Penguins have beaten the Ottawa Senators, and get to choose a player from the losing team to receive punishment.  Who will it be and what will happen to him?  And, Marc-Andre Fleury finally confronts Crosby about his suspicions over what happened after the Jackets series.Note: although fics #1 and #2 can be read completely stand-alone, you will likely want to read at least fic #1 to understand what's happening here.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Although I'd originally intended to just allude to some pretty rape-y stuff in Sid's past, well, I ended up writing the whole thing. Luckily, the entire chapter can be skipped if you're comfortable with reading about rape aftermath, but NOT comfortable reading explicit descriptions of rape. Chapter 4 will be the one to skip and I will bring you up to speed at the start of chapter 5.

"So? Who we got?"

Sidney Crosby flicked his eyes over to Malkin, who was squeezing next to him in his stall. There wasn't quite enough room for both of them, but Geno didn't seem perturbed, easily draping himself over his captain and Jake Guentzel in the next stall over. Jake dutifully shifted over to give them a tiny bit more room and busied himself with untying his skates, but Crosby knew he was listening. After all, the captains were discussing The Payment - Kunitz was too busy talking to the media as the game 7 hero to join, but Crosby had checked in with him to talk preferences, and Chris had none. To be honest, Sid didn't really have one either. Nobody on the Sens had quite set him off like Dubinsky or Niskanen. Karlsson kept his team in check and ran a tight ship. Good for him.

"I dunno." Crosby paused from tying his own skates to lean back, clicking his tongue thoughtfully. "Nothing serious this time, Geno. I didn't really have any issues out there. I mean, Phaneuf is always kind of a dick - "

"We should pick him and throw mustard packets at him. _Open_ mustard packets," Phil Kessel interjected, waggling his eyebrows.

"...what?"

"Dee hates mustard."

Crosby and Malkin exchanged slow looks, Evgeni's mouth slightly hanging open in - was that disbelief? Sid knew the feeling. What the hell was Phil talking about? "Thrill, you are fucking terrible at this. No. No, we are definitely not doing that."

Phil shrugged, unperturbed. "Suit yourself, eh?"

Crosby and Malkin exchanged another glance. "Still need player," Geno reminded him. "Methot?"

"I, uh, sort of feel like I owe him, what with the finger slash and all."

Malkin made a _hmm_ sound, mulling it over. "Turris?"

"Now I feel like you're just naming names. What did he do?"

Geno opened his mouth to respond, but never got a chance to as a shadow fell over the pair. Ian Cole towered over them, still in his skates, looking serious. "Bobby Ryan," he intoned. "It should be Ryan. Remember what he did to Ruhwy. And he was just a general prick the whole series."

Crosby nodded slowly; Cole wasn't incorrect about him being an asshole. Plus, Bobby Ryan had taken out Chad Ruhwedel, who wasn't quite a rookie, but still a relative newcomer to the NHL. He knew Ian remembered it well as he was the first man on the scene in the aftermath as his D partner. "You got something in mind for him?"

"Not really. Just something humiliating."

Three pairs of eyes - Crosby, Malkin, and then Cole - turned to the back of the room, where Patric Hornqvist stood in a suit, chatting away to the other Pens who had been scratched for various reasons. For Patric, he was still nursing an injury; but if anyone knew _humiliating,_ it was Hornqvist. He was into that bondage kind of shit. "Hey, Horny!" Geno called out, waving him down.

Hornqvist, for his part, looked absolutely gleeful as he approached, knowing the trio was talking about The Payment. "Boys! What are we thinking?"

Ian Cole had taken a step back now, but still looked grim and determined. "Bobby Ryan. We want it to be humiliating."

Hornqvist hooted his approval, clapping his hands. "Good one. I like. Fuck that guy. Humiliating, you say? Well..." Patric trailed off for a moment, thinking. "Oh, I've got a good one. You ready for this?"


	2. Chapter 2

The Payment was traditionally three hours long and occurred immediately after the series. Usually in the locker room, occasionally elsewhere in the city. But there were exceptions to be made. For truly creative punishments, you could defer your Payment up to one week. The time you had to dole out your wrath was halved - to one and a half hours - and you had to pay for the guy's first-class flight and a four star hotel stay, if required. For that reason, almost nobody deferred. But Hornqvist's idea made everyone laugh, and it required a little different setting, so Crosby agreed to defer. He still remembered that evening, heading to the Sens locker room to inform Karlsson of the deferment and the player selection, the Swede's surprise at the decision. And he remembered Bobby Ryan's face when Eric announced it to the locker room. Overall an exceptionally satisfying wide-eyed panic meltdown, which Sid felt fortunate to be able to witness.

Now, it was Saturday evening at the Crosby home, waiting for their guest of honor to arrive. Hornqvist, Kunitz, and Malkin were already in the living room, and Geno couldn't stop giggling at what Patric had brought: teeny-tiny black Speedos and a bow tie.

"So he _just_ wears this?" Geno was asking between laughs.

"Right," Hornqvist nodded, smirking. "You know, like a Chippendale dancer?"

"A - what?"

Kunitz and Hornqvist exchanged looks. Sid knew what they were thinking; no use in going down _that_ road. "Uh, never mind. It'll have the intended effect, I guarantee it. You know Ryan's not a fan of the gay stuff. So here he'll be, as an eyepiece for a bunch of men, exposed, _and_ having to wait on us hand and foot."

"Why not just have him go naked?" Kunitz asked.

"You see how fucking small this thing is?" Horny grabbed the Speedo from Geno's grasp, tossed it over. "It'll be worse for him trying to keep himself covered up and stop his dick from popping out every 5 seconds. Trust me."

The doorbell rang, and all four men perked up. Crosby walked briskly to the door to find - 

"Heyyyy!" Matt Murray nearly bowled him over, giving him a hug, with Marc-Andre Fleury right behind him. Normally he'd be fending off a hug attack from Flower as well, but the French Canadian just smiled, nodded, kept on going. Sid's gaze followed Fleury's back. Was he pissed about losing his starting gig again to Murray or something?

Something was definitely off. But he filed it in the back of his brain to note for later. Now, however, Justin Schultz was bounding up his walkway, and he thought he saw Hagelin's car heading in as well. The entire team had been invited for this party at Bobby's expense, and most of them were going to show up.

Crosby glanced at the clock as he greeted teammate after teammate, most of the rookies arriving together. Sid felt a note of irritation as the clock ticked down. Bobby had been informed 10p sharp, and it was already 10:02p; but Crosby knew that he was obsessed with timeliness, amongst his other quirks and superstitions. Two minutes wasn't really that long for most normal people.

The knock finally came at 10:07p. Almost everyone who was going to show had already arrived, and Sid could just tell by the tentative, reluctant knock instead of the doorbell that had to be Bobby.

It was. Ryan shifted from foot to foot on his doorstep as Sid just looked out at him, smiling, but not moving or saying a word. Let him get a little uncomfortable, a little worried...

It had the desired effect as Bobby visibly got more panicked every second, until he finally burst out. "I'm here! What do you _want?"_

"Get inside. You're late," Sid instructed and stepped aside to let him pass, his voice low, dangerous. He wasn't going to do shit to Bobby, not really, but why not make him sweat a little?

Ryan slunk through the doorway like a battered dog, looking dismayed that nearly the entire Penguins roster was peering back at him from the living room. Silence, for a moment - then someone, Sid wasn't sure who, maybe Phil? - started jeering and clapping, and after a few moments the entire team followed, wolf-whistling and yelling. Bobby said nothing, just stood there, worrying his lip.

"Horny, could you take our guest of honor up to one of the guest bedrooms to change?" Holy shit, Sid was absolutely obsessed with Bobby's face, his expressiveness. Nothing hid on his features. You could read him plain as day, and he was concerned to say the least as Hornqvist started dragging the Senator up the stairs. "Be good," Crosby warned, arching an eyebrow at Patric, who just nodded before he disappeared with the other man up the steps.

"What a drama queen!" Kessel burst out once they were out of sight. "You see his face? He is _flipping. Out."_

The room laughed, and Sid patted Ruhwedel on the shoulder, who returned his gesture with a tight smile. Chad was a bit uncomfortable at The Payment being partially chosen due to him - but Sid would address that with him later.

A few minutes later, Crosby heard footfalls on the landing. He glanced up expectantly, but nobody appeared on the stairs for a long moment. Only when he heard Patric scream, "Get down the stairs or I will _drag_ you down!" did feet finally appear, bare feet, then ankles, calves...

Bobby Ryan looked _exceptionally_ uncomfortable, his face - no, not just his face, his whole neck and chest, too - flushed a deep red. He was wearing that tiny black Speedo which didn't even cover his pubes, it was so small, and a little bow tie circling his neck. Otherwise, he was completely naked.

The first one to burst out laughing was Kessel. Sid knew he'd played with Bobby before - world juniors, team USA - and he was finding the entire situation hilarious. Quickly, the team joined in laughter, whistling and cheering and making kissing noises at Ryan. Bobby, for his part, sneered at Phil and the team, arms crossed in front of him as he stepped off the last bit of stairs. Snarling, he started out, "You guys are a bunch of fa - "

Sid was expecting some sort of reaction like this, and Ryan never saw him coming as Sid crossed the distance in two long strides and threw him against the wall, barring his forearm against Bobby's neck in a threatening gesture before he could finish the word _faggots._ "Don't finish that sentence, Bobby."

The two men just stared at each other for a long moment, and Sid applied just a touch more pressure against Bobby's neck, until the red in his face wasn't just from embarrassment. Finally, Ryan nodded, looking angry, and Sid let him go where he took a few deep, gulping breaths.

The mood had shifted in the room at Bobby's outburst. Of the boys that Sid knew to be affected by that word, Hornqvist looked furious; Fleury was staring at the floor, with Matt Murray patting his shoulder in a reassuring manner; Phil just looked disappointed. From everyone else, there was just simmering anger.

"We're going to be throwing a party tonight, to celebrate our win," Sid announced, breaking the tension. He felt the mood lift as the boys paid attention, started smiling. "Bobby Ryan here is going to be our own little Senators servant. Your wish is his command. If you tell him to fix you a drink, he will fix you a drink. If you tell him to do a little dance, well, he should be asking you what kind of dance. If you tell him to give you a back rub, he'd better be asking you what kind of pressure you like."

Bobby's jaw hung open, and he looked very much like he wished to protest this whole thing. Kunitz, for his part, jumped up, sauntering over to the Senator. His voice was low, but Crosby could hear every word from his alternate captain, addressed to Ryan. "This could go so much worse for you. And it still might, if you don't do everything we fucking tell you to, so just be a good boy and close your gob and shut the fuck up."

Bobby closed his mouth.

Chris raised his voice now, so the whole team could hear. "First order of business is _shots,_ so get your little ass in that kitchen and pour us some good shit!"

Ryan stood rooted to the floor for a minute before Kunitz raised his arm and pointed towards the kitchen, eyebrows raised, which seems to rouse him. Chris smacked his ass as he turned to leave which caused Bobby to rocket out of the room while everyone laughed.

"This going to be interesting night."

Sid glanced over at Malkin, who had materialized next to him, looking thoughtful. He nodded back. "You can say that again."


	3. Chapter 3

"So how's that feel?" Sid sat down on the arm of his favorite and most plush chair, nodding at Chad Ruhwedel. Ruhwedel occupied the chair itself, and they were spending the last 10 minutes of Bobby's punishment forcing him to be a footrest for Chad.

"Pretty good, actually!" Chad bumped his glass against Sid's. Now that he'd had a few drinks, he was much more relaxed about this particular punishment, and Crosby was glad for it.

"Probably a little bumpier of an ottoman than you're used to, but it'll do," he chuckled, dipping his finger quickly in the crack of Bobby's ass, exposed by the tiny Speedo as he was bent over on all fours. Ryan glanced over his shoulder at Sid, eyes blazing in fury, and Crosby just winked at him.

It had been a fun hour and a half, and they'd made the most of it. Bobby had been required to make every conceivable drink, licking the liquid up when he spilled, even on the counter top or floor. Hornqvist had been really into Bobby on his hands and knees, who had been licking a spilled Jaegerbomb off the tiles at the time, and had proceeded to tell Ryan in excruciating detail exactly how he'd fuck him and what he would do to the Sen in different circumstances. Most of the rookies had fled the room, blushing, and even Sid had to admit he was impressed by the graphic descriptions that Patric had conjured, for English not being his first language. Bobby looked like he was going to have a heart attack the whole time, which was most of the fun of it all.

He'd also been ordered to give Ian Cole a foot rub ("Not half bad," Ian had told Sid), and had been asked to slow dance with Marc-Andre. Bobby ended up taking lead while Flower rested his head on Ryan's shoulder, who looked just about as uncomfortable as Sid had ever seen anyone look. Malkin had tormented him all night ordering him to do exercises - burpees! Push ups! Crunches! All of which had the desired effect of causing Bobby to fight like hell to keep himself decent as the Speedo threatened to expose him with every movement. Phil was no better, darting in from seemingly nowhere to twist Ryan's nipples from time to time. Sometimes the attacks came minutes apart, sometimes 20 minutes would lapse before the next one. By the end of the night, Bobby was jumpy, his nipples puffy and red.

"Well, as much as I hate to admit it, unless Bobby wants to remain your footrest, you've got to put your legs down. His penance is over," Crosby announced, to 'awws' from the team. Ryan jumped up immediately, looking like he was going to say something, and Sid was willing to bet it was nothing good. "Walk away, Ryan," he commanded sternly, catching the other man's eye. "Go upstairs, get your clothes, go back to your hotel. I have an Uber waiting for you. Look around you. The Payment may be over, but you're still in enemy territory. Go. Home."

"Before we regret," Malkin sneered in broken English, and that seemed to be enough to shut Bobby up and get him moving. Without a word, he ran upstairs. When he returned, he was clothed again, and he moved swiftly through the house, trying his best not to look at anyone, and then he was gone.

"Do you think he chose to keep the Speedo?" Hornqvist wondered as the team laughed.

Sid rubbed his face. He was suddenly very tired, and a little buzzed as the team had ordered drink after drink from their servant bartender, glasses being shoved into his hand again and again. Everyone else seemed to be feeling similarly exhausted as guys finished their drinks and didn't linger, started heading for the door, thanking Crosby for his hospitality and chattering excitedly amongst themselves, talking about their favorite Bobby moment.

Crosby let himself fall from the arm of the chair into the now vacant seat, letting himself sink into the cushions and sigh. He was alone now, and bed was going to feel so good - 

Actually, no. He was not alone. A movement out of the corner of his eye startled him, tilting his head back to see Marc-Andre Fleury vault over the back of the nearby couch to bounce off the cushions and lay down on it.

"Hey, Flower. You staying the night? If you're feeling too buzzed to drive, you know you're always welcome."

Fleury stretched out, grabbing one of the couch pillows to pop under his head. "Not too buzzed."

"Well, stay here anyway, if you want."

"Maybe." Something was obviously bothering the goaltender. His short answers were unusual, and Crosby frowned, lifting himself off the chair. He grabbed Marc-Andre's legs and situated himself underneath them, comfortably stroking Flower's calves. Sid didn't really consider himself gay, he mostly liked women - but he didn't shy away from it if the opportunity arose, and there had always been an undercurrent of sexual playfulness in his and Fleury's relationship. They'd never acted on it; Sid would never, ever fuck a teammate. Too messy. But since the inevitability of Fleury leaving the team loomed large in the future, the teasing between them had ramped up, so thick sometimes that Sid had to fight against getting hard. He was 100% sure that he and Flower were going to fuck the second they got the call for his new team.

But today was not that day, and furthermore, Sid had to find out what was wrong. Whereas there was normally discussions filled with innuendo, today had brought clipped, tight answers; generally the two men brushed against each other, "accidentally", so much that Sid knew how nearly every part of Fleury's body felt, but tonight Marc-Andre hadn't touched him once, steadfastly avoiding the captain. "So, what's wrong?"

"Can't hide anything from you, captain." There was a ghost of a smile on Flower's face, and he sat up a bit, pulling his legs from Crosby's lap. "I was nervous about tonight. Because of what happened with Dubinsky."

"Dubinsky?" Sid scrunched up his face, feeling his stomach drop a little. Did Fleury somehow find out about the real punishment? But that was impossible. "You mean when we spanked him? I didn't think that would offend you that much."

"That part was fine, Sid." Marc-Andre swallowed, visibly nervous. "It was the part after."

"What part after?" Play dumb, Sid.

Flower fixed him with a hard look, eyes narrowing. "I came back to grab something, and I heard him screaming."

As for Fleury, he was lying through his teeth, putting together contextual clues from Pinkerton and his own suspicions. But Crosby didn't know that, and furthermore, he was a terrible liar, especially when up against a serial prankster who could read faces like books. He struggled to keep his face neutral, and knew he failed when a look of horror bloomed on the goaltender's face. "Something _did_ happen. I knew it. I heard Dubi's real fucked up right now, Sid. What did you _do?!"_

"I - " Sid's voice caught in his throat, choking. Marc-Andre was not going to understand, not at all, and of all people, Fleury's opinion was the one he valued most.

"Tell me, Sid. Tell me the truth, or we'll never talk again."

Crosby rubbed his eyes fiercely to stop them from crying. He was pretty much fucked, now. He knew Flower was serious, but at the same time, if he told the truth, Fleury would probably not ever talk to him again anyway. And he couldn't lie his way out. Marc-Andre would never believe him. His best shot - although prognosis didn't look good - was simply to convince the goalie that he was in the right. "I'll tell you. But please don't hate me."

"Just...tell me, Sid."

"Do you remember the 2012 Payment?"

"How could I fucking forget?" Fleury drew back, grabbing another pillow to clutch to his chest. "Oh, god. You didn't - " He cut off with a choke as Sid nodded silently. Fleury buried his face in the pillow, lifting only slightly to wail out, _"Why?!"_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter to avoid if you're not into rape. Seriously, trigger warning: EXTREMELY GRAPHIC AND EXPLICIT RAPE SCENES. Also there is blood.

The 2012 Payment. That year, the Philadelphia Flyers had beaten the Pens in the first round. It was a shocking upset, and Sid remembered sitting numbly, leaning against Fleury for support, when Giroux entered the locker room. With no fanfare, he'd called out Sid's name and left. He remembered receiving a hug from Marc-Andre, letting their fingertips touch as he got up to follow Claude, absolutely convinced everything was going to work out fine.

He'd been made to sit in the corner of the locker room with a dunce cap on, staring at a homemade poster that said "Sid's timeout corner" in crayon, while the team went through their post-series spiels. It was annoying, but Crosby felt grateful that nothing worse was happening.

Even staring at the corner, he became aware of more and more guys heading out until the locker room was nearly silent. Now he was getting antsy. Why was he still here?

"Crosby. Come here." He recognized the voice of the captain, Chris Pronger. Chris had only been able to play a quarter of the season or so before suffering injuries that everyone suspected were going to cause him to retire, but he was still officially the captain, for now. Sid got up slowly and shuffled over. Chris stood in the middle of the locker room, smirking, arms barred across his chest. Claude Giroux sat in his locker stall, and he didn't like the look on his face. Giroux looked worried, his leg tapping up and down a million miles per hour, biting his thumbnail. He didn't see anyone else. "Do you know why you're here?"

Crosby was suddenly very aware of the height difference as he looked up at Pronger, who towered 7 inches over the Penguin. "Well, we lost."

Chris rolled his eyes. "No shit, Sherlock. I mean why we chose you."

"No."

Pronger sighed, glancing back at Claude, who returned the look with wide eyes. "You know, I really wish we didn't have to do this, Sid. We had a good time at the Olympics together. But the way your team plays? The way you play when you're with the Penguins? It's unacceptable. It's going to get someone injured. And the whining, Jesus Christ."

Crosby felt indignancy bubbling in his chest. "Come on, it's been awhile since - "

"You've toned it down," Pronger cut him off. "But still not acceptable. But that's not the worst part. The chippiness, the cheap shots, and your whole team takes after you and is going to injure one of our guys sooner or later. So now we need to be very firm with you about what you've done wrong. I need to set an example for our next captain." Chris jerked his chin over at Claude, whose eyes dropped to the floor.

"So what happens now?" Sid took a step back into something firm and unyielding. Shocked, he tried turning around, but arms encircled him, held him firm. He was able to twist his head, look up, and see the grinning face of Scott Hartnell.

"We teach you a lesson," Scott murmured in his ear, breath warm, smelling strongly of cologne that Sid would never be able to forget the smell of as hard as he tried. He pressed his hips to Sid's, and Crosby realized with a start that he was hard. He tried to twist forward out of Hartnell's arms until a shadow fell over the pair, and he realized Pronger was moving towards them, unbuckling his belt. Sid abruptly changed directions, shrinking backwards into Scott, feeling excruciatingly small compared to Pronger.

And then Chris was on him, the punch a shock even as Sid expected some sort of blow, knocking him to the floor. His hand flew up to touch his jaw but couldn't stay there long as he tried to fend off a few well-placed kicks to his side. He was vaguely aware of hands on his suit pants, yanking, pulling him up to his knees as Scott pulled Sid's face from the floor, slapped it. He was saying words that Crosby couldn't comprehend, too shocked by the turn of events. Another slap, harder than the first, jolted him out of his reverie.

"Open your mouth! _Wide!"_ Hartnell was yelling, and Crosby did as instructed, realizing only when he did that Scott's fly was open. He scooted forward and jammed his cock in Crosby's mouth. Sid gagged, threatening to throw up as Hartnell started thrusting, growling out, "I don't care what the rules are, if you bite down, I will _fucking kill you."_

Sid's pants were now down around his knees, and he felt a few hard slaps to his now-bare ass. He couldn't see what Pronger was doing, but he happened to catch Giroux's eye, who was curled in his locker, forced to watch the whole thing. Claude was hyperventilating into his hands, cupped over his mouth, his expression terrified. Sid's eyes blurred with tears as Scott thrust deep, gagging him, and he knew what was to come just based on Giroux's expression.

The object pressed against his opening was slimy, so Sid knew some amount of lube had been used, but it wasn't enough, he wasn't ready, nothing had opened him up until Pronger snapped his hips forward. Crosby screamed around Hartnell's cock, gagging and involuntarily closing his jaw. Not a lot, but enough for Scott to yelp. He pulled out, tone furious. "I warned you. I warned you if you bit down - "

The sentence wasn't finished as the first blow came, a fist whipped across his temple, the next crushing against his nose, then his jaw again. Sid felt blood dripping down his lips from where his nose was gushing. He vaguely heard Pronger warn, "Nothing had better be broken, Scotty," before Hartnell scoffed, prying Sid's jaw open and again pushing his dick inside.

"He'll be fine. I didn't punch him that hard."

Sid felt his left eye swelling shut, blood continuing to drip from his nose, but the pain in his face was nothing compared to what Pronger was doing, his fingernails digging hard enough into Sid's hips to leave marks as he thrust, hard and fast. Crosby was moaning around Scott's cock, couldn't help himself even as he tried to be silent.

"God, Sid. You were just made to suck cock. Your mouth should be doing this instead of yapping on the ice so much. Keep him moaning, Prongs, it feels so fuckin' good."

"Not - much longer - " he heard Chris stutter out, then nearly fell over as the Flyers captain growled with one last, big thrust. A moment later, Hartnell wrapped his fingers into Sid's hair and yanked Crosby's head down, coming down his throat with a few choice curse words. They both pulled out after a long minute.

Without the two men propping him up, Sid collapsed onto the floor. He felt the rough carpet against his cheek, an oscillating fan blowing against his legs every 6 seconds. Tried to concentrate on the small details, so he wouldn't have to think about the larger ones.

It was a long few minutes of being curled on the floor while the Flyers got dressed again. They returned, both getting a solid kick in to Sid's prone body before Hartnell leaned down. "Don't forget this lesson, Sid. Clean up your act."

"Sorry again for having to do this. You forced my hand," Pronger said mildly, his tone not indicating any regret at all. The two moved off, and a second later Sid heard the locker room door open and close.

Another pair of feet appeared in his vision a minute later, and he cringed away, covering his face with his hands. No more, no more punches - 

"It's okay," the voice murmured, and it was Claude, leaning down with a towel. He gently moved Sid's hands away, wiping the blood off his face. He refused to meet Sid's eyes, looking like he had aged 10 years in that - what had it been...20, 30 minutes? "I - uh...I got you a private flight back to Pittsburgh. So you wouldn't need to go back on commercial looking like, um..." He didn't finish the sentence, just handed over the towel. "I'll be in the trainer's room if you need anything. Otherwise there's a cab waiting outside. I made sure to get a guy that isn't a hockey fan, too. So you - you'll be...fine." Claude choked out that last word, voice dropping to a whisper, so soft that Sid was never sure if he actually heard it or it was a figment of his imagination. "I'm sorry." With that, he turned and raced off towards the trainer's room, leaving Sid alone to clean up and get dressed.


	5. Chapter 5

The memory came unbidden to Sid, who shuddered, picking nervously at a scab on his wrist where he'd gotten slashed a few games before. He'd spent all summer after those playoffs at Fleury's house, or Marc-Andre at his. Sometimes Sid would be irrationally angry at everything, life, the world, and Flower never complained, never snapped back. Sometimes all he wanted was to curl in bed with Fleury holding him, cuddling close. And sometimes he'd sit comatose on the couch, unable to move, while Marc-Andre took care of him, cooking dinner, doing laundry.

"It...it wasn't quite like _that,_ Flower. I mean, we didn't beat the shit out of him. And, uhm, we made sure not to hurt him, we got him ready - "

"But you still...raped him?"

Sid cringed visibly at that word, _rape,_ but was forced to nod. Fleury sunk his face into the pillow again and his shoulders hitched, and he realized the goaltender was crying.

"Let me explain, please, Flower. Please," he rushed out, trying to pull the pillow down. Fleury snarled, keeping his face firmly planted in the fabric. Fine, he could talk to a pillow. "Have you ever heard of the nuclear option?"

No answer, so Sid assumed that Fleury had not. It wasn't surprising; Crosby was a huge history buff, and Marc-Andre was not, to say the least. He continued: "Well, it comes from the fact that nukes are the most extreme option in warfare. The only nukes ever used were by the United States against Japan in World War II. Since then, most developed countries have owned their own nuclear stockpile. Even Canada, at one time, although we no longer have them." Marc-Andre's gaze popped up from the pillow, eyes narrowed, and Sid hurried along, realizing he was getting on a history tangent. "Okay, um, anyway, do you know why most countries have, or had, nukes even though everyone agrees that the Japan bombing was basically the worst? It sounds strange, but it's to keep the peace. When every country realizes that their enemy has this nuclear option, which could cause this absolute catastrophe for them, they tend to play a little nicer, be more open to diplomacy." He took a deep breath. "I didn't realize it at the time, but Philly was exercising the nuclear option. Don't you remember the next season, after I told the boys what happened, that games against the Flyers got a lot more subdued? A lot less chippy?"

"Yes," Fleury replied, cautiously, slowly.

"It's because both teams knew what happened. And nobody on that ice wanted a repeat of it. The Flyers knew we were a better team, that there was always a possibility we'd meet in the playoffs, we'd beat them, and one of them would be chosen for revenge. And of course, we all understood what the Flyers were capable of."

"Nobody wanted to be next," Fleury mumbled, more of a statement than a question.

"Exactly. The Flyers exercised the nuclear option and it brought peace to the match ups. I needed to do the same to the Jackets."

Suddenly, Marc-Andre hurled the pillow against the wall, angry. "You mean to tell me you agree with what Pronger and Hartnell did to you? You spent _all summer_ with me, absolutely traumatized! There were times you scared me, I looked into your eyes and saw _nothing!_ How many times did you fall asleep in my arms because you couldn't sleep alone? That we had to always keep a cup of water next to the bed because you'd dehydrate yourself from crying? And you'd inflict that on Dubinsky?!"

"I _was_ traumatized, Marc, and I owe you a great deal from that summer," Crosby admitted. "But from a long term perspective, it means none of our teammates got injured. It meant match ups were a little more relaxed. I wish it hadn't happened, but it happened for a reason."

"And how do you know the Jackets won't take it the other way? Turn the volume up to 11?"

"You forget, _Scott Hartnell_ is on their team," Crosby spit out the name, sneering. "He'll know."

"I just - I just don't know what to think, Sid." Fleury was slumped now, looking shell-shocked. "I need time to process. I...I gotta go."

"Okay." Crosby watched as the other man picked himself off the couch. Shortly before he reached the door, Sid called out again, pausing Flower in his tracks. "Please don't hate me, Marc. I only did what I thought was best for this team. To keep the boys safe."

Fleury never looked back, didn't acknowledge the call-out in any way except to start moving again once Crosby stopped talking. He was out the door, closing it firmly behind him, and Sid had never felt more alone.


End file.
